


Black Pearl

by iruusu



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-01-07 17:32:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12237483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iruusu/pseuds/iruusu
Summary: Judal is brash, rude, and annoying. He has no respect for anyone around him—especially not for Sinbad—and Sinbad should hate him for it.But Judal is beautiful, even when he isn't trying to be. Judal is beautiful, even when Sinbad finds him bruised and beaten with two men holding him down as he cries.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote something like this a long time ago but i somehow? lost it? so i wrote it again but i think it came out way better this time,, i just miss posting stuff but im working on my chapter fics!! i promise.. i rly am i just wanted to practice more modern au :'))
> 
> i was,, Inspired to redo this by lovelyspiral i love u nena.. my girl.. ilu 
> 
> feedback is always appreciated !!

Sinbad is, at times, dense, and perhaps a bit self-absorbed, but he is not blind.

 

Sinbad, for all of his idiocy and arrogance—of which he’s often been informed, chiefly by Ja’far—has eyes, and he has not forgotten what beauty looks like. A man like Sinbad can get a lay from anyone he so much as looks at in the right sort of way, and yet beauty has been rare for him. In these past four years, he’s hardly seen anyone who could manage to captivate his attentions for much longer than a night.

 

At least, until he meets Judal.

 

Judal is beautiful in a different sort of way. For as young as he is—eighteen to Sinbad’s twenty-two—Judal’s beauty is captivating beyond belief. Sinbad learns of this in bits and pieces. When Judal is not cackling or snarling with his ugly, spiteful words, his face bears a softened sort of repose, long eyelashes fluttering relaxed, rose-petal lips full and pursed for whenever he's retreated into deep thought—which is more often than one might think, with the way he behaves. When he is angry, or particularly upset, his carmine eyes turn to blood, but when he smiles, _really smiles,_ something warm and shockingly gentle, Sinbad thinks that there just might be roses blooming behind those painted lids.

 

It's hard to pay attention to the way that Judal looks, with his effortless beauty, when he is so obsessed with tormenting Sinbad each and every chance the opportunity arises. Sinbad is, to him, _old man,_ or sometimes, if he's feeling particularly generous, simply _idiot._ Judal is crass and rude; he has _no_ respect for anyone other than himself, and certainly none for Sinbad. Sometimes, when they might occasionally cross paths, Judal will forcefully bump his hip against Sinbad’s thigh, will grin and stick out his tongue, all boyish youth and unrelenting teenage rebellion as he watches Sinbad cringe. He is brash, and annoying, and Sinbad should hate him.

 

But, then again, Judal _is_ beautiful. Sinbad can't help himself, for he has always had a weakness for pretty things, when Judal’s laugh would ring soft, like bells, when he speaks to the pretty girl with the red hair (girlfriend? no, Sinbad doesn’t think that’s it), or even to Kouen—and Sinbad still can't believe that he’s possibly envying _Kouen_ for easily entertaining the one person Sinbad’s ever found truly beautiful _._ But Judal is beautiful, in more ways than one, and Sinbad is undeniably weak for beautiful things.

 

By far, Judal’s most beautiful thing is his hair. Such long, thick, beautiful ebony hair does not quite suit Judal’s crass demeanor, but it certainly suits the softness of his features; the cream, milky white of his skin, the delicate stature with which he is built. Sinbad has had long hair before, but _never_ like this, long enough to sweep the floor and the backs of his pretty ankles when left unbound _._ Judal typically keeps his hair tied in an elaborate braid, like a string of priceless black pearls flaring out behind him; a modern-day Rapunzel. But on the rare occasions that Judal wears his hair down, Sinbad never fails to fall mesmerized with the way that the sun catches the endless sea of strands, like one flowing celestial body, glistening with all of the stars of an inky midnight sky.

 

Perhaps, Sinbad often thinks when he finds himself particularly enamored, that Judal is not as beautiful as Sinbad so devoutly believes him to be. No one as rude and crass and annoying as Judal can ever possibly be so pretty. Maybe it's just the hair.

 

One of Judal’s many charms—which Sinbad holds in particular contempt—is his willingness to fight. Not with his fists, of course, for Judal is slender and delicate and can barely lift his own bag without staggering under the weight of it (not that Sinbad’s ever considered offering his aid). But Judal’s tongue is as slippery as it is cunning, and with a mouth like his there are some things that even beauty can't evade.

 

Judal is beautiful, Sinbad thinks, even when he finds the youth sobbing and thrashing on the bathroom floor, arms restrained by one man while another fists a hand into his long, black hair.

 

“Get off of me!” Judal snarls, struggling in the iron grip that keeps him down, thrashing wildly as the man holding him laughs, unrelenting. “Let go!” Judal is fighting like a caged animal, desperate and scared and suddenly he looks so _small_ that Sinbad has never felt worse than he does now, looking at him. “Let _go_ of me!”

 

The tall, blond man, the one holding him back, only tightens his grasp in a grip that will surely bruise. “Hold still,” he sneers, “or we'll cut more than just your hair.”

 

They're facing away, so no one notices Sinbad’s silent presence. But then the hand jerks Judal’s head back, hard enough that even though Judal’s back is to him Sinbad can suddenly lock gazes with the corner of those glassy, scarlet eyes. The sight of him alone makes Judal’s face fall.

 

Never before has Judal looked so afraid, so embarrassed, so _humiliated._ Bruises stain the marble white of his shoulders and collarbone, and there's a big purple splotch swelling under his left eye. Judal’s gone silent and numb, though his lower lip is quivering, and the shame is lit plainly in his terrified, bloodlit eyes. Sinbad can see the scissor blades fisted in the smaller figure’s hand, the one chuckling as he tightens his grip in Judal’s thick hair, and ah, _that_ must be why Judal is crying so much.

 

 _He had it coming to him,_ Sinbad thinks to himself. Judal knows this too, Sinbad can tell from the shame and remorse swirling in his panicked expression; Sinbad knows this, for Judal’s provocative nature was bound to get him into trouble eventually. That must be why Judal doesn't ask for help, why he doesn't beg, doesn't plead—at least, not with his words—because while Judal’s beautiful hair must be everything to him, there is no worse shame than begging to a man who’d never help him anyways.

 

Judal stays silent, until there's another yank on his hair and his features twist with startled agony. “Sinbad!” he cries, like it’s instinct, and regret crosses Judal’s features the moment it slips out.

 

“Sinbad?” The guy yanking on Judal’s hair laughs, and Sinbad’s sympathy turns slowly to rage, boiling his blood red hot. They must not have noticed, Sinbad thinks as the youth snips the scissors in mid-air, taunting. “There's no way that guy would help someone like _you.”_

 

By the time the boy realizes his mistake, Sinbad is already in motion. The blades flash in his hand and Sinbad isn't thinking when he rips the guy off of Judal, slamming him into the wall with all of the raw strength concealed within his tall frame. This is less a man than a boy, half Sinbad’s size with partially shaven hair and a gaunt frame, yelping almost as earnestly as Judal had before. But when Sinbad’s fist meets the youthful face again and again, all that he can think about is the way that Judal had looked at him with tears in his glassy carmine eyes.

 

“Stay away from him,” Sinbad growls, finally relenting as he tightens his fists in the boy’s shirt. Judal isn't the only one bruised and bleeding anymore, and the thought alone gives Sinbad a bit of satisfaction. “Don't touch him _ever_ again.”

 

The boy staggers back when Sinbad shoves him away, groaning with a hand pressed to his noticeably shifted nose, glaring at Sinbad with eyes like daggers. “Fine,” he croaks, yellow gaze hardened. “Yeah, okay. Whatever."

 

It only takes Sinbad’s glare at the other man for the both of them to shove their way out the door. Sinbad could have felt bad, but he's never been much for pitying cowardice.

 

With a sigh settling his shoulders, Sinbad turns back to Judal, still a trembling, disheveled heap on the floor. Judal is always so immaculately put together that it tugs at Sinbad’s heart to see him this way, eyes damp with tears, covered in dark bruises that blot his moon white face like smudges of ink. Sinbad doubts that Judal would be able to stand like this, so he lowers onto one knee and doesn't miss the way that Judal shrinks away, just barely.

 

“Are you alright?” It takes Sinbad a moment to ask, softly, and Judal’s trembling slows, a little. In the end, he only scoffs in a voice strained with tears, and shrugs.

 

“Idiot,” Judal mutters. His voice is raw from all of the crying, and although he isn't crying anymore Sinbad can see the way he swallows the last of his tears. “You shouldn’t have done all that.”

 

Ah, well. Sinbad had been expecting perhaps a bit more gratitude than this, but then again, Judal has always been unpredictable. “I—Well, uh.” Sinbad doesn't remember how to speak, suddenly; he doesn't have the words. “They were going to cut your hair,” he says, dumbly.

 

Judal stiffens a little at the mention of it, and tentatively, almost shy, brings a hand up to the long, soft strands at the back of his head. “Yeah,” Judal murmurs, rose-colored gaze cast away. “Don't see why you’d care.”

 

If he were being honest, Sinbad doesn't quite understand it either. Judal is a rude, insolent brat, and Sinbad should feel nothing at his pain. Maybe it’s simply because Judal is beautiful, and it would be a shame to watch them ruin his long hair—which is still intact, if only a bit disheveled. Or maybe it's because the sight of Judal’s tears sends Sinbad into a rage, and protecting Judal’s pride feels more a duty than a choice. Or maybe it's just the hair.

 

Judal cuts Sinbad off before he can answer. “It was my fault, anyways,” he admits. “I hit him.”

 

This catches Sinbad’s attention. “Hit him? Olba?” he asks. Judal is a loose cannon, but Sinbad can’t recall him ever hitting anyone. He's so small, so slender; Sinbad and Judal both know he’d never win a fight. “Why?”

 

Judal lowers his gaze, and red hot shame burns his bruised cheeks. “The little fucker’s like, five feet tall. I could take him.” Sinbad disagrees, but he doesn't say it; only listens. “I just didn't think he’d bring that asshole Yon to back him up."

 

“Buy why did you hit him?”

 

Judal bites at his lower lip, looks away. It's clear that whatever Olba said is eating at him, but Sinbad is curious enough to wait, patiently, until Judal sighs. “He called me a whore.”

 

Sinbad is quiet for a moment, watching Judal curve in on himself, like he’d been struck a second time. “Oh,” is his intelligent response. Sinbad is usually better with his words, smooth and suave and composed, but now his tongue feels like cotton balls and he's forgotten how to speak. “Ah, well,” he finally manages. “I'm glad I hit him back, then.”

 

This earns him a weak chuckle, and when Judal looks back there's a bit of familiar light shining back in his eyes, like the color of roses all over again. “Yeah,” he agrees, pink petal lips curved with the shadow of a smile. “Thanks for that, I guess.”

 

It’s more gratitude than Judal’s ever shown to anyone, much less to Sinbad, and it catches him off guard. But, more than that, Sinbad thinks that Judal looks the most beautiful when he's smiling like this, with something humble about the way he angles his head, something honest sparkling in his softened eyes. Sinbad can’t help but smile back at him.

 

“Hey, don’t worry about it.” Sinbad is the first to get to his feet, slowly, and Judal follows him with his eyes as Sinbad offers a hand. “Come on,” says Sinbad, offering a smile. “Let's get out of here.”

 

Judal looks up at him with wide eyes, and in that moment he looks so _young_ that Sinbad feels a pang in his chest. Perhaps he's been too forward (no, forwardness is reserved for courtship, and _this_ is not _that_ ), especially since Judal has just been through such an ordeal, but then the youth tentatively places his hand in Sinbad’s own. Judal’s hand is soft, as is the rest of him, and Sinbad carefully shifts his weight to gently tug Judal into an upright position.

 

Though he is careful, Judal’s legs are still trembling and weak, and once he's standing he slumps gracelessly forward onto Sinbad’s chest. Sinbad is paralyzed for a moment, and when Judal doesn't shove away Sinbad wonders if it is appropriate to touch him, to gently nudge him off or to help him stand again, but when he hears the soft sobs that fall from Judal’s shaky breath, Sinbad forgets everything else.

 

“Stupid old man,” Judal scoffs, sniffles as he hides his face in Sinbad’s shirt, fisting his hands into the fabric. “You really… _really_ didn't have to do that.”

 

 _Yes he did,_ Sinbad thinks, fighting his initial shock. He'd never have forgiven himself if he didn't, if he’d only stood there and let them beat and disgrace Judal until he was left broken and unrecognizable. Judal is a brat, insolent and ungrateful and a pain in Sinbad’s neck, but he is also fragile, soft beneath all of his walls and insults, and most of all he is beautiful. Sinbad hasn't realized how deeply he wants to protect Judal’s many charms until today, until now, until this.

 

Sinbad rests a tentative hand at the small of Judal’s back, gentle as he smooths the long hair that drapes over him like falling water. It's so soft; Judal must take very good care of it to keep it so nice. Maybe that's what all of this boils down to after all, the swell of affection in his chest each time he meets stupid, cruel, irritating Judal. Maybe it's just the beauty that draws Sinbad to him, maybe it's just the hair after all.

 

But when Judal is crying and Sinbad is holding him, it already feels like so, so much more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i.......i haven't posted anything in a really, really long time and i honestly missed it so much?? jfhdjs the last few months have been pretty tough on me, both creatively and academically but.. i think im gonna start posting again........ bc im still soft and i still have shit to say !!
> 
> anyway this feels like it really didnt need a continuation but i kept having Thoughts™ about it bc this was like next level soft and self indulgent nd i wanted to write.. from judals pov too so ! enjoy whatever this is

Judal insists that he will see no doctors. He will  _ not  _ go to any hospitals, nor to the police station, nor to anyone of reasonable authority, and he says it with such conviction that Sinbad feels obligated to do as he demands. (Always demanding, even after this.) But Judal is bruised and beaten, and he can barely walk, and Sinbad won't let him go home without at least  _ some  _ proper care.

 

Judal doesn't really want to go to Sinbad’s—surprisingly warm and decadent—apartment. (Where did the old man get this kind of money, anyways?) Judal has never been particularly social, not like Kouha seems to be, and regardless of the way he flirts Judal isn't one to go home with strange men he’s barely even met. But when Sinbad looks at him with such genuine concern, such  _ worry _ —no one really worries about Judal, anymore—it's hard for him to say no. So he doesn't.

 

“Hold still,” says Sinbad, carefully pressing a damp, alcohol-soaked rag to the cut staining the pane of Judal’s cheek. “This might sting a little.”

 

It does. Judal makes a sound of protest and tries to wriggle away, but he's already sunken into the plush couch cushions and Sinbad’s grip on his wrist is warm (and strong) enough to keep him in place.

 

“It hurts,” Judal complains, eyes clenched shut as he tries to tug away. “I don't like this.”

 

“Ah, sorry,” says Sinbad; awkwardly, but like he means it. He uses two fingers to tilt Judal’s chin back to face him, and carefully presses the towel to the damaged skin. “Just a little more, okay?”

 

Judal isn't used to blemishes. He hasn't looked in the mirror yet, but he doesn't really want to. Judal has spent hundreds on skincare for what feels like nothing; when he's covered in bruises and blood, it really doesn't matter what his pores look like. Judal has always taken great pride in his appearance, and while taking a beating hurts his honor, what it hurts even more is his vanity.

 

Judal knows that it isn't good to be vain, but he has always loved his face, his body, his hair. He has spent  _ so long _ making himself look beautiful; caring for his skin, practicing those  _ cursed  _ abdominal exercises, styling his long, dark hair. But now Judal is hurting: can't walk without a limp, can't look in the mirror, and Judal can feel that he’s hating himself all over again. 

 

But  _ God,  _ if they had taken his hair as their prize, Judal doesn’t think he’d ever be able to bear it.

 

Judal is drawn from his thoughts by the stinging in his face, and he can't help the  _ stupid  _ embarrassing sound that he makes at the pain. When he opens his eyes, Sinbad looks worried, and Judal almost wishes he’d never said anything.

 

“Sorry,” he says; again, like he means it. “Uh, that should be alright for now.”

 

It's really a shame that the one time he’s so close to Sinbad, the one time Sinbad can  _ really  _ look at him, Judal looks worse than ever before.

 

“Will it scar?” Judal asks, holding as still as he can when Sinbad presses a small, square bandage to the cut below his eye, careful not to tug the delicate skin beneath.

 

“I don't think so,” says Sinbad. “The cut’s really thin, so it should heal in a few days. You don't have anything to worry about.”

 

Judal can tell that Sinbad is just trying to reassure him, but it makes him feel a little better anyways. “What about the bruises?”

 

“Ah, yeah,” Sinbad smiles a little. “Bruises don’t scar,  so they'll go away pretty fast.” He stops himself, and his brows furrow, sympathetic. “But don't worry about any of that, alright?”

 

It's hard to take the advice, when one looks like Sinbad. On occasion Judal has seen Sinbad change his shirt in public, has seen the thin layer of scars that ripple across muscle, that darken warm, tan skin. Scars look good on him, but on Judal, it just seems as though something is out of place.

 

“I'll try,” Judal mutters, a bit dry, but it's mostly exhaustion rather than bitterness that creeps into his tone. “It's just,” he manages, a shuddering sigh, “It’s hard not to.”

 

Judal doesn't even remember how it started, doesn't remember how he crossed Olba in the first place. Judal doesn't exactly stay out of trouble but it isn't like he  _ wants  _ to get a beating, so he watches his back well enough, most of the time.

 

But to be called such a thing… to be called a  _ dirty whore,  _ when Judal’s sole crime is his utter  _ lack  _ of physical experience, was too much an insult to slip past unpunished. Judal had hit him, square in the nose, and while his knuckles stung more than his pride Judal had  _ liked  _ the way the little bastard had staggered back with a hand to his face, pressed to the blood gushing from his nose. It had been satisfying, and Judal’s pride swelled more than it stung.

 

That pride was short-lived, though. Everything was a blur when they’d pulled him into the bathroom, kicking and screaming and sobbing, and Olba  _ couldn't  _ have been this strong, not on his own. It was when Judal felt two strong hands holding him to the floor, and another two making quick work of his hair, that he knew he’d lost.

 

“We’ll teach you a lesson,” they promised, so caught up in their own sniggling laughter that they’d yet to notice the towering presence coming up behind them.

 

“Not much without your hair, is that it?” Olba had laughed, yanking on a fistful of hair with such force that he may as well have torn it out. “Guess we’ll find out, huh?”

 

“No! No, no, don't do this,  _ please!” _ Judal  _ hated  _ to beg, but at his absolute lowest, groveling was his only prayer. “Get  _ off  _ of me! Let  _ go!” _

 

Not once in eighteen years has Judal ever cut his hair. The idea of living without it was  _ terrifying,  _ and the thought alone sent him into a panic like nothing else. Judal almost didn't feel it when they’d hit him,  _ hard,  _ when they’d kicked him, when the scissors nicked the delicate skin below his eye. Judal loved his face and his body, yes, but to lose his hair would be to lose the one thing that made him feel truly beautiful, and that was a pain like no other.

 

Of all the people Judal could have prayed to be his savior, he would have chosen Sinbad last. Judal’s relations with Sinbad were far from positive; Judal liked to taunt and to tease, to harass and poke at Sinbad the only way he knew how, and Sinbad had never liked Judal. Judal saw the way that Sinbad rolled his eyes and shoved him off, the way that Sinbad pointedly looked away whenever their eyes met in passing. Sinbad was not fond of Judal, and it was hard to blame him for his indifference.

 

But then, Sinbad was Judal’s only prayer, and to think that Sinbad of all people would be the one to see him defeated, humiliated, and shorn of his hair, his beauty, was entirely too much to bear.

 

“Are you alright, Judal?” Sinbad asks, and it snaps Judal out of his thoughts before he can even blink. 

 

It takes a moment for Judal to realize that he  _ is  _ alright, and that he has Sinbad to thank for it. Judal doesn't know where he’d be if it weren't for Sinbad, doesn't know what would've become of him. Sinbad could've walked away and Judal wouldn't have blamed him, but he didn't. He had  _ defended  _ Judal, stood up for him and fought for him when no one else would, and perhaps that’s why Judal feels so safe being so close to him, even if they are strangers.

 

“Yeah,” says Judal eventually, quietly. He brings up a hand to touch his own hair, tugging his fingers through the strands. It’s a comforting gesture, reminds him that it’s still there, and Judal calms the sinking feeling in his stomach. “I’m okay.”

 

Concern wells in Sinbad’s eyes, like tears had for Judal. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the doctor, or something? Maybe you should report this to the authorities.”

 

_ “No,”  _ Judal snaps, barely before Sinbad’s finished. “No one finds out about this. Please, Sinbad, don’t tell anyone.”

 

“Alright, alright.” Sinbad holds up his hands as he relents, and his eyes soften. “We don’t have to, I can take care of you here. Close your eyes.”

 

Judal does. His eyes slip shut, and he waits in anticipation until he feels the cool, damp cloth against his eyelids, wiping away dried tears and the faintest smears of blood. Judal remains still, even when he feels the warmth of Sinbad’s palm angling his cheek for a better look, and then the touch is gone before Judal can begin to process the fluttering in his stomach.

 

“Okay,” says Sinbad. “You can open your eyes now.”

 

It’s by coincidence that the first thing Judal sees when he opens his eyes is Sinbad’s golden gaze; not harsh, or indifferent like he’s used to, but warm and soft and gentle, a look that invites before it commands, and it’s different from the way anyone’s ever looked at Judal before.

 

After a pregnant pause, Judal asks, “do I look bad?”

 

Sinbad’s face falls, and there’s a crease in his brow. “What?” he asks, leaning closer. “Why would you think that?”

 

Judal swallows, and looks away. His thick fringe falls over his eyes, and for once he’s glad that Sinbad can’t see him. “I was just knocked around in a bathroom, Sinbad. I can’t—I’m allowed to be worried.”

 

Judal can’t deny that he startles when Sinbad angles his face to meet his gaze, nor the way his chest tightens when their eyes meet. It’s closer than he’s ever been to someone that isn’t one of the Rens and his breath hitches when Sinbad speaks.

 

“A few bruises will never change that you are beautiful,” says Sinbad, like he means it. It’s only when Judal’s eyes grow wide that he seems to realize what he’s said, but he manages a smile anyways. “I mean that.”

 

The only person who has ever told Judal that he is beautiful is Kougyoku, and even when she says it Judal worries it’s in a sort of sad, pitying way, like an apology. When Sinbad says it, Judal can feel its warmth, even once he pulls his hand away.

 

This, Judal could never have anticipated.

 

“Oh,” Judal manages, a whisper, as if he hasn’t said anything at all. All his life Judal has longed for praise, and now that he has it he doesn’t know what to do. “I’m glad that you think so.”

 

There’s a pause, and from it Sinbad asks, “would you like to spend the night? Here?”

 

It catches Judal off guard. Any sort of composure he’s regained under Sinbad’s care is lost to him in an instant, and Judal tries not to look too unnerved. “What?”

 

It isn’t that Judal doesn’t want to stay, just for a night, which means nothing (Sinbad surely has guests all the time, Judal tells himself). Sinbad’s apartment is comfortable and warm, and Judal won’t deny that he feels safe under his care, after everything. It isn’t that Judal doesn’t want to intrude, because he’s never cared for that, but to be so close to Sinbad for so long after watching him quietly from afar is almost too much to process. Sinbad looks embarrassed. 

 

“I mean,” now it’s Sinbad who won’t meet Judal’s gaze, staring to the side at something Judal cannot see, but has brought an attractive shade of warmth to golden cheeks. “Underclassmen dorms are awful, I’ve been there, and I can’t imagine you’d want to go back there tonight. I have more than enough room here, so—would you like to?”

 

Judal falters. It is only a night. It is one act of kindness. Morning will fall and they will both return to their respective routines, and they won’t speak of this again. Judal knows that. But, awful as his day has been, Judal does not want it to end, not yet, not when Sinbad is casting warm, patient looks at him from the corner of his eye. If Judal can make the fairy tale last a little longer, can have his Cinderella moment with a man who will never remember his name, then there’s no reason to pass the opportunity.

 

”Yes,” says Judal, finally. “I would.” He risks a smile, shy and inconspicuous, and Sinbad looks back at him and grins. It’s a dazzling smile, blinding, an arrow to the heart, and Judal cannot help but ache for a kindness that will not last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont quite want to say that im "back" bc i dont want to promise updates but...... i really kinda feel like im back so !!!!


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